Creatures of Appetite (20 page)

S
ome time later
, Thorne and Kane navigated their way through the cluttered front hallway of McNeil’s house to the living room, where Forsythe and Hairston stood in front of the body of Bart McNeil. McNeil, a squat man in ratty boxer shorts and a T-shirt, sat comfortably in his easy chair, at least, as comfortable as a dead man could be. Scroggins and Gilday stood off to one side of the room, out of everyone’s way, and stared at what was left of Bart McNeil.

The top of McNeil’s head had been blown away and in his right hand he held an automatic pistol. Blood spatter covered the front of his shirt, but remarkably his face was untouched. A TV tray sat to one side of the chair, a bowl of dried stew and a half-empty bottle of Budweiser rested upon it. Forensic technicians scurried everywhere, taking pictures. Thorne and Kane kneeled down for a closer look at the body.

“Piece of shit saved us the cost of executing him,” Forsythe said to them. “That’s a forty-five in his hand. Stuck it in his mouth and blew the top of his head off. He must have figured that we were on to him.”

“He was eating the children,” Hairston said, still not quite believing it himself. “There’s a pot of stew on the stove with fingers in it.”

“Fucking sick fucking animal,” Scroggins said. “I can’t believe this.”

“Captain, there are body parts in the refrigerator and in the freezer on the back porch,” this from one of the other cops. “Fucking loads of parts.”

“Nobody touch nothing, leave it for the techs.”

“Did you see what was on top of the TV?” Hairston asked.

“What?” Kane stepped carefully over to the television. A plastic baggie with some coarse dark hairs enclosed within it sat on top.

“Don’t touch it,” Forsythe barked. “I’ll tell you what it is, it’s hair, and I’ll bet a year’s salary it’s pubic hair belonging to our DOA Boyd, this sneaky fucker got it and planted it.”

“How convenient, left right out in the open for us,” Thorne remarked. “How did an ice cream truck driver get the pubic hairs of a black man that lives fifty miles away?”

“Maybe he blew him in the back of some queer bar, who knows, who cares?”

“What about Darcy Mullens?” Kane asked.

One of the technicians, wearing rubber gloves, entered from the kitchen and held up a small pink snow jacket, a nametag sewn into the back collar.

“That’s her jacket,” Scroggins said, very grim. “Fuck me.”

“What about her body?”

“Don’t know. Won’t know, until forensics can sort out the frozen food,” the tech said.

“He’s also got loads of trophies from other victims, shoes, clips of hair and jewelry,” Gilday added. “Thorne?”

Thorne looked at him.

“Did you know he was eating them?”

Thorne didn’t answer right away.

“You knew, didn’t you, and you didn’t say anything. You knew this guy was eating kids.”

“He won’t be eating any more of them,” Thorne stood.

“It looks like we won’t be needing either of you anymore,” Forsythe said to Thorne and Kane. “We got our guy and we got a shitload of evidence to process. Why don’t you do me a favor and get your ass clear of my crime scene?”

Thorne looked at Forsythe for a moment, expressionless, before turning to Kane.

“Let’s go, Kane. This scene is dead.”

“A fucking cannibal,” Scroggins grimaced as Thorne walked by him. “Just like Jeffrey Dahmer, right, Thorne?”

“Except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Dahmer didn’t kill himself. Come on, Kane, shake a leg. Let’s get some breakfast.”

Thorne disappeared down the hallway. Kane stared for a moment at Darcy’s pink snow jacket before following.

T
horne exited
the McNeil House and stood in the front yard, surveying the scene before him. Lights, cars and police personnel were everywhere, surrounding the house and covering the entire street.

Kane joined Thorne in the yard, zipping her jacket all the way up to her chin to protect herself from the bitterly cold wind, or so she told herself. She didn’t remember being this cold before entering McNeil’s but she definitely felt the chill now.

Bill Johnson, stitches still fresh on his forehead, borrowed a smoke from another officer out on the front lawn, both of them stamping their feet from the cold.

“Johnson!” Thorne barked, which caused the younger man to jump yet again. “Car keys!”

Johnson fumbled for the keys and tossed them to Thorne, who caught them easily. Johnson pointed at an unmarked sedan and Thorne walked slowly toward the car. Kane followed and then made a quick detour to some bushes in the neighbor’s yard. She threw up. Thorne watched her as she retched.

“Come on, Kane, stop fucking around,” he said after a moment. Thorne climbed into the sedan.

Kane wiped her mouth, embarrassed, and got into the passenger seat. Thorne put the keys into the ignition but did not start it. He pounded the steering wheel several times with his open hand.

“Something bothering you?”

“A lot of things bother me, Kane. You, for one.”

“What is it?”

“Never mind,” Thorne started the car, an angry glint in his eye.

“What is it?”

“Kane, shut your pie-hole.”

“You didn’t think he’d kill himself, did you?” Thorne didn’t answer her. “You didn’t profile him as a suicide, right?”

“No, I did not. And do you know why I did not profile him as a suicide?”

“Why?”

“Because he’s not a fucking suicide, that’s why,” Thorne put the sedan into gear and spun out on the icy road, dodging police cars and news vans.

“He fits the profile, though, right? Except for that one thing, he’s exactly what you said.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Thorne, did you see what was inside that house?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“If he’s not the Iceman, how do you explain what we found in his fucking kitchen?”

“I’m not trying to explain it, I’m just telling you what I know. The Iceman is not a suicide. End of story.”

“Maybe you’re wrong on your profile.”

“What have I told you about that?”

“Everybody is wrong once in awhile.”

“Everybody but me.”

Neither said another word to each other on the drive back to Lincoln.

K
ane walked down
the hallway of cubicles at headquarters on her way to her desk to file yet another report. It seemed as though the three days since the discovery at Bart McNeil’s house had just flown by in a media-drenched whirlwind of activity and her superiors were in the process of drowning her in paper and electronic reports.

Every aspect of the case was examined in minute detail again and again, not only by law enforcement agencies but also in the papers and on television across America. The air in the whole city, the state, maybe even the entire country, had lightened considerably. Laughter, actual laughter coming from people not inhabiting a sitcom, was heard in the hallways of offices and schools everywhere.

For certain, everyone mourned the children lost to the killer and felt for their families, but folks everywhere were almost weak with relief now that the ordeal was finally over. For a few days, Kevorkian and his Mercy Killings were put on the news back burner in favor of the events in Nebraska.

Kane kept her eye out for Thorne, whom she’d barely seen the past three days. Thorne was around but somehow managed to disappear into the background. He came in, stared at his chessboard for awhile, ordered take-out and watched television before heading back to his room.

He wouldn’t entertain any conversation about the case, or anything, for that matter. If asked a question, he would answer in as few words as possible, if at all. He left all the after-action reports for Kane to do on her own, something that still rankled her when she thought about it.

Thorne also avoided any media and managed to never be mentioned in print or on television. Kane had been through this before on the DC shooting and was a little more adept at dodging the press, though her picture still managed to find its way into the papers upon occasion.

Thorne just effortlessly sidestepped any and all attention, not that there was a lack of volunteers willing to step forward and speak in the national spotlight. Forsythe was at the head of that line and clearly enjoying his time in front of the cameras.

It was hard to even turn on a television without seeing Forsythe’s meaty face going on about “the chase for the Iceman.” There was gossip around the watercooler that he was already negotiating a book deal and was considering the possibility of retiring to pursue a career in radio. Rumor was that Forsythe had big plans to stretch his fifteen minutes into hours, days, weeks and hopefully years. Forsythe was one happy camper.

“Hey, Emma,” Scroggins said, pouring himself coffee from a fresh pot in the break room. “Coffee?”

“Sure, black with lots of sugar,” Kane joined him. She hadn’t seen much of him or Gilday in the last three days either, though she caught glimpses of them in the hallway and occasionally on television in one of the many reports that played the Heartland Child Murders nonstop. “You’ve been pretty busy.”

“You know, it’s funny, while we were chasing this fuck, the captain kept Jeff and me outside the loop as much as he could. Now that we caught him, Captain Asshole doesn’t want us out of his sight, wants us at every briefing, every meeting with Justice, you name it. He can’t fart without us catching a whiff.”

“He wants you to present a glowing report to your boss, so he’s kissing your ass.” Kane took a cup from him and blew on it, cooling the coffee.

“He can kiss my ass. We’ve been meaning to catch up with you and Thorne, Jeff and I both. We’re going to make sure our boss knows what you guys did and how much help you were. Where is Thorne, anyway? I never see the grouchy bastard anymore.”

“I was just going to look for him. He’s not back at the motel, so he’s hiding around here somewhere.”

“I see they got you the latest update?” Scroggins nodded at the report in her hand.

“Yeah, just got it, Norman himself handed it to me. How are you doing?”

“I’m hanging in there, hell,” Scroggins replied. “I’m just glad we got him. I would have preferred to shoot the son of a bitch myself, but I’ll take what I can get.”

“You look like you’re feeling better.”

“Yeah, it was a tough scene but yeah, I am better. I gotta tell you, I’ve been a trooper for ten years and a cop a lot longer than that, and I’ve seen some shit, like we all have. I’ve always managed to keep that, you know, wiseass cop distance from the job, you know how it is. This is the first time it ever got this personal, the fucking creep was practically in my backyard. That’s my fucking home the prick was taking a shit in. These were people I knew and really cared about. It just … after finding McNeil’s body and Darcy’s coat, Jeff and I had to give the bad news to Chad and Barb and let me tell you, that was no picnic.”

“I’m sorry, Gerry.”

“Me too. Darcy was the best kid, I’ve known her all her life, she was really sweet and special and …” a dark cloud covered his face and Scroggins had to turn partially away for a moment. “It’s just a fucking tragedy when it’s someone you know real well. That’s all. The funeral was last night, Jeff and I went and Barb and Chad lost it during the service, just lost it.

“But at least now they know for sure what happened and can try and move on,” he continued. “They’re young enough they could have more kids, if they want, I don’t know. Important thing, it’s all over. It’s over for everyone and we can all move on. After I get all the paperwork and shit done, I’m going to have myself a nice stiff drink. Speaking of which …” he smiled at her, and she recognized the opening, got ready for it.

“Hey, what’s going on over here?” Gilday joined them. “Did you guys see this?” he held up a newspaper, the headline of which read “ICEMAN ICES SELF!”

“I did see that one.”

“Lord, we’re gonna be reading shit like that for a long time,” Scroggins said.

“How’s it going, Emma?”

“Good, Jeff, how are you?”

“Better and better and it’ll only go up from here. What are you two talking about?”